Added Oct 2020 16k views 4.7 stars (11 votes) 7,534 words
He’d reached a time in his life when compliments ended with “for your age”—“You’re in great shape… for your age” or “I hope I’m still training that hard when I’m your age” and the like (“the like” being “sure, you’re bald, but at least your head has a nice shape”)—that little barb hidden inside the kindness, wrecking the whole thing. Didn’t people realize how patronizing that was? How condescending? Worse, he’d gone from desirable muscle-daddy to invisible man almost overnight. The gym, which had always been a flirty, playful place, was now a place where men practiced the art of aversion—no eye-contact, no acknowledgement, no existence. The arc of life for the gay top, he consoled himself as he lay on the gym mat, stretching—prostates, erectile dysfunction, man-boobs, nope… you can’t fight time.
Look at those beautiful boys! There was a seeming pack of them at the gym, dim-witted and gorgeous, ponderously over-built but for their baby-faces, endlessly posing and giggling with each other—oh, how he wished the kind of designer drugs that existed now had existed when he’d been their age! Hell, in his day, they used to inject veterinary-grade horse testosterone! Now it was all pro-hormone this and peptide that—they had these perfect bodies and these perfect complexions and no fucking clue how lucky they were. There they were now in their tights and their meggings showing off their beautiful asses and their full, unatrophied balls—they lifted their shirts so often to check their abs it’s like they had to keep reminding themselves they had them.
Wilson sighed—he was envious and he knew it. It never used to bother him, but lately Wilson had discovered himself crossing some imaginary line to old man. Sexually, he didn’t seem to have “it” anymore—no one seemed attracted to him. His body was still fairly good—for his age—certainly nothing like it was back when he competed, but if no other truth became clearer to Wilson as he got older it was that gravity always won. Hell, even after you die, gravity keeps pulling you back down.
Suddenly, dropping down next to him on the mat—see? gravity—another beauty of a guy—mid-thirties, maybe, spent too much time in the sun, but an amazing body. As he started to stretch, he looked at Wilson and smiled. “Hey, hot daddy,” he said.
“Hey, hot muscleboy,” Wilson said, the words out of his mouth before he realized what he’d said—almost by habit.
The guy stopped what he was doing and met Wilson’s gaze. He smirked. “Woof,” he said.
Wilson barked a laugh. “You’re too kind,” he said. “But someone like you should be flirting with those ridiculously hot boys over there, not wasting your charm on old guys like me.”
“I like old guys like you,” he said as he glanced over at the pretty boys. “They’re a bunch of doofuses. Pretty… but overpriced.” He chuckled. “I don’t have to pay… yet.”
Wilson sighed as he stretched his hamstring. “I don’t have to pay, either.”
The guy laughed. “No,” he said. “Not when you got hunky guys like me throwing themselves at you.”
“Oh? Are you throwing yourself at me?”
“I think so,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Jonas. Wanna fuck?”
Wilson hadn’t fucked anyone at the gym in years—and here he was slamming the fuck out of this hot muscle-guy in the posing room. Thank God everything was cooperating—at his age, his cock wasn’t always agreeable to spontaneous sex. But there was something about this guy Jonas—fucking beautiful body—fucking amazing ass—that made his cock proceed with confidence.
Of course they were rushed—who knew when one of the bodybuilders (or that roving gang of pretty boys) would decide they wanted the posing room for themselves? And if they did come in, would they be repulsed or intrigued? Would they run or join? Fight or flight?
They fucked facing the mirror, Jonas bent over the small bench that people normally dropped their clothes or gym bags on. God, he was beautiful! Muscular without being thick-waisted—and his ass! A dream! A delicacy! Bubbled and round, but firm and no-nonsense—when he flexed it, it was rock hard, but when he was relaxed, it was a cushion that Wilson loved pushin’. They both still wore their gym clothes—and for that, Wilson could only be grateful, no need to see his saggy ass body next to this prime beast. Why couldn’t he still be in his prime? Looking at his bald head and white beard in the mirror, he couldn’t help think he was off-season santa. No… don’t get distracted, you old fuck.
Old maybe, but Wilson’s cock was still its big familiar self. As a youth, he learned he was a grower. He didn’t realize how big his cock was until he’d started having gay encounters. He thought all those guys in the locker room with big, soft cocks must get enormous when hard. Little did he know.
And who didn’t love a true top? And who didn’t love a muscular top, at that? Wilson’s most exciting discovery when he’d first come to California was that a lot of the hypermuscular bodybuilders were bottoms, all of them looking for a big, strong Daddy to give them what they needed, discipline and dick. Wilson was good at both.
But if there was one thing this old man couldn’t do, it was edge. He was nearly ready to cum before he’d even gotten a steady rhythm going. Or maybe it was just that this guy Jonas had some talent. “Oh fuck,” Wilson said, “I’m gonna cum! I can’t stop myself!”
“Lemme have it, daddy!” Jonas grunted. “Put it deep in my hungry hole!”
“Oh, shit!” sighed Wilson, and blew it. Old fucking man, he thought. When you were young, you’d have made that last longer than two minutes. Embarrassing.
But Jonas didn’t seem to mind, as he set about the business of jerking off while Wilson’s dick was still inside him. Wilson reached around and pinched the guy’s nipples, tiny little small things on the swell of enormous pecs. “Oh, yes,” Jonas moaned, standing up a little straighter. When he shot his load, his cum hit the mirror, nearly three feet away.
Pulling out and wiping off on his gym towel, Wilson did his best to throw off his embarrassment—still, he tucked himself back in his jockstrap and shorts pretty fast. Nervous, he didn’t want to seem too desperate, or too grateful.
“That was fucking hot,” Jonas said, wiping his cum off the mirror with his t-shirt.
“I haven’t done anything like this in years,” Wilson said. “I can’t even remember the last time I was naughty at the gym. I think it was two owners ago, in the old steam room….”
“You should do it more often,” Jonas said, putting the t-shirt in his gym bag. “You got a great dick.”
Wilson chuckled. “Maybe,” he said, “but I can’t rely on him always performing on cue anymore. And, as you can see, it doesn’t always last that long.”
“Don’t make excuses,” Jonas said, kissing him quickly as he walked past. “It was great. Not that I couldn’t get you something that would make it a little greater.”
“Oh, really? I hate to step on your sales pitch, but I’ve tried just about every form and flavor of ED therapy there is, every pill and troche and injection and testicular device. Every rub and scrub and lotion from the tribal Amazon basin. At some point, a man has to accept a certain sexual inevitably.”
Jonas laughed. “So I guess I should give you my card. I’m an ambassador for a local pharmacy that specializes in anti-aging.”
Wilson smiled. “Is this a sales technique of yours?”
“Why? Is it working?”
Wilson lightly put his hand on Jonas’ round, firm ass. “Let’s say I’m intrigued,” Wilson purred. “And interested in more.”
Jonas flicked his eyebrows. “Definitely,” he said.
And they kissed.
“So, the company I work for has perfected a peptide growth-hormone variant that has shown spectacular success in testicular rejuvenation, visceral fat loss and muscle retention. They can’t call it the fountain of youth in a bottle, but it basically is. It’s still in limited release, but I have access to it—if you want to try it.”
“Really?” asked Wilson, genuinely intrigued, but nervous—he never pictured an open conversation like this in a locker room. In his day, steroids had codewords and were discussed hush-hush in private. Nowadays almost nothing was illegal—it was all prescribed!
“I promise it’s nothing but good,” he said, standing there in just his towel, hung low over his narrow hips. “I mean, I’ve done it.”
“You? On anti-aging therapy?” Wilson laughed, trying not to look like he was covering his saggy barrel belly. “You can’t be more than 30, 35 at most.”
Jonas’ smile widened. “Bless you,” he said. “I’m fifty-three.”
Wilson was dumbfounded. His jaw hung slightly open as he tried to take in the truth of Jonas’ statement. It was impossible—it was some kind of weird joke. A guy he was calling “boy” a few minutes ago was only six years younger than him? Impossible!
“Is this the part where I show you my driver’s license?” Jonas laughed—his good humor was unflappable. “Trust me, I was born in the sixties… and I’ve got the Bobby Sherman albums to prove it!”
“But…” Wilson mumbled, making an empty gesture toward Jonas’ abs, his impossible mid-section. His youthful skin.
“I can even get it for you at my rate—c’mon, you know you wanna do it. Don’t be an old man… anymore.” They made eye contact—Jonas smiled slyly. “Do it.”
And Wilson was surprised by how quickly he said, “Okay.”
That was how Wilson found himself at Jonas’ beach house in Malibu that evening, watching the sun set over the ocean as Jonas explained the procedure. Wilson had done some research during the afternoon—he’d read the pharmacy’s website, but found precious little about the actual compound he’d be taking. Just that it had been in trial tests and results had been promising.
“It’s a series,” Jonas said, opening a small white cardboard box adorned with the pharmacy’s logo and removing an IV bag. “Four treatments—one a week, sometimes ten days, depending on how quickly your body responds to the formula. Takes about a half-hour to do the IV. Side effect: it can make you a little nauseous, so you might want to crash here tonight. You might even just want to lay out here under the stars.”
“Your house is beautiful,” Wilson said, settling into a lounge chair on the patio. “Perhaps I should’ve become a pharmacy rep when I retired.”
Jonas laughed. “I’m also a pimp on the side,” he said, setting up the IV-stand next to Wilson’s chair. “Believe me, the best part of rejuvenation is the sex—you forget how much you missed it.”
Wilson was eye-level with Jonas’ thick package, proudly displayed in his too-small speedo—Wilson licked his lips. “I can’t wait,” he said.
“Let me get you set up then.”
Jonas tied a rubber tube around Wilson’s bicep and said, “Give me a vein.” Wilson squeezed his fist and his forearms popped. Jonas tore the needle out of it’s sterile wrapper and inserted it so neatly and painlessly into Wilson’s vein that Wilson realized the guy had a ton of experience. He attached the IV-line and the began the transfusion. “Beautiful,” he said, removing the rubber tube tourniquet and allowing Wilson’s blood to flow. “It’ll take about a half hour.”
Wilson was still looking at Jonas’ junk. “No worries. I love the view.”
“A little nauseous” didn’t begin to describe it.
Even the slightest movement caused his belly to flip, even less to flop. His body burned, a fire raging through him—he’d go between rounds of horrible sweating to shakes of coldness as his wet clothes clung to him. It was worse than the worst flu he’d ever had. At one point, he remembered himself on the toilet, shit exploding out of him—everything nasty coming out. The piss, the shit, the vomit—who knew he had so much crap inside him. He was spewing every bit of it out.
There were times he was aware of Jonas hovering over him, caring for him. “You’re doing great, Willy,” he thought he heard Jonas say. Why would he call him that?
Wilson was delirious. Jonas put a cold-compress on his forehead—he thought. Did he remember that? Imagine it?
Hours later, as the fever broke, Wilson passed out.
His morning wood woke him, insistent and throbbing—how many years had it been since he’d had that problem? Absently, he grabbed his cock with his hand, mildly impressed by it, as he surfaced back to reality.
He was still lying on the lounge chair on Jonas’ patio, though someone had thrown a comforter over him sometime during the night. The sunrise was behind the house, casting long, cool shadows across the beach. He vaguely remembered moments of puking and sweating and diarrhea, but there seemed no evidence of that now—his shorts and t-shirt were clean and dry. The only differences were this blanket…
…and this hard-on.
Wilson lay quietly for a moment, listening to the ocean lap on the shore as he casually stroked his cock—which seemed a bit more of a handful than usual, but that was probably because he hadn’t been this hard in a while. This was a teenager’s erection. And it felt really good.
“Looks like someone’s up,” Jonas called, coming through the patio door carrying a coffee tray—he was dressed in only an open bathrobe and a pair of tighty-whities, tight because of how he filled them. “How do you feel?”
Wilson laughed. “I feel good,” he said, smiling. “Morning wood kind of good!”
“That’s what I like to hear!” Jonas said, setting the coffee service down on the table.
“It’s funny,” Wilson said, still absently playing with his hard-on beneath the comforter. “I swear I was sick overnight, like it was really bad, but now I feel clean and… hell, even my breath is fresh!”
Jonas poured him a cup of coffee. “The first dose tends to clean out the internal systems…. Sugar? Milk?”
“Black,” Wilson said, gladly taking the cup.
Jonas continued talking as he made a coffee for himself. “As I was saying, first dose hits the internal system: the gut, the liver, kidneys, digestive system, endocrine system, sex organs. This week, as your internal systems reset, you’ll continue to feel better and better, healthier, I guess you could say. By the end of the week, you won’t even get acid reflux anymore. And wait’ll you see what it does to your sex drive.”
“I’m already seeing that,” Wilson said. “I haven’t had morning wood in decades.”
Jonas smiled that crooked, sly smile. “Don’t lose that,” he said. “I might want it after coffee.”
“That’s the only cream I’ll take.”
Jonas had been right—as the week progressed, Wilson did continue to feel better. His energy was better. His recuperation time was faster. Hell, even his poops were good—and for an old man, like an old dog, quality of poops was everything.
It all contributed to his good mood—he felt good inside, healthy, and he couldn’t help but smile. He may still be an old, bald, white-bearded guy on the outside, but inside he felt good as new.
People noticed. “Someone’s in a good mood!” they’d say to him at the gym, but with his workouts improving the way they were, it wasn’t a surprise. He hadn’t gotten pumps this good in a long while. His dizzy smile made sense—and it felt good, too. Screw them if they wanted to wallow in their misery—they weren’t gonna drag old Wilson down anymore.
And his dick kept making itself known. Hell, he hadn’t had so many spontaneous erections since he’d been a teenager. Even at rest, it seemed half-hard—and he’d swear it was bigger. He’d swear it. And his balls seemed fuller, too—of course, they were working for the first time in years. Hell, Wilson figured he’d killed his balls off decades ago, putting himself through the kind of cycles he had when he’d been a competitor. But now, it seemed everything was back online.
He didn’t try to show it off, but he felt like his cock was obvious in everything he wore—and he liked it.
He fucking liked everything!
Here they were, the next Saturday evening, back on Jonas’ patio in Malibu. “So you like it so far?” Jonas asked. “Ready for the second dose?”
“I love it!” Wilson cried happily. “Bring it on!”
So Jonas set-up the second of the four IV-pouches, finding Wilson’s vein a little more easily than before. Wilson was delighted by the whole thing.
“So the first dose reset your internal organs and systems, at the least—in some cases, probably started the regeneration of some things—but this next dose will be a little more obvious externally.”
“In what way?” Wilson asked, watching the flow of liquid head down the tube.
“Just like with growth hormone, the decrease of visceral fat—you know, fat on internal organs. You’re gonna lean out like you were in a competition, but you don’t have to worry about diet. Lean and hard!”
Wilson laughed. “I’m already hard!”
Jonas laughed, too. “So I see. You just wait.”
With the second bag empty, Wilson was pleased that he didn’t feel as nauseous this time. But he did feel warm.
“How you feelin’?” Jonas asked, disconnecting the IV.
Wilson seemed to search for the right word. “Hot,” he mumbled. “Like a fever…”
Jonas felt his forehead. “Yup. C’mon,” Jonas said, indicating Wilson to follow him, “let’s get on the stationary bike.”
Wilson reluctantly climbed on the bike—he was dizzy from fever—he slid his feet into the straps. “I don’t think…”
Jonas smiled. “You don’t need to think, Willy. I got you covered. Right now, you just need to pedal. Can you pedal for me?”
Jonas pressed a button on the bike’s console and the pedals started moving, forcing Wilson’s legs to move with them. “You got a terrible fever,” Jonas said into Wilson’s ear. “You gotta burn it out.”
And so he pedaled. And pedaled. And Lord how he sweat.
Delirious, he lost track of time and place. Jonas had thrown a towel over his head and that wiped out Wilson’s awareness. He pedaled and sweat, pumped and dripped. Occasionally, his exhaustion would slow him, his delirium would disorient him, but then he’d hear Jonas from somewhere saying, “Keep pedaling, Willy,” and he’d obey. He couldn’t reason enough to resist.
Finally, hours later when the fever broke, he passed out—he felt himself collapse on the bike’s console. But he was also aware of someone dragging him somewhere and laying him down. That same someone squeezed his rock hard cock and kissed his forehead.
Wilson heard, “Go to sleep, Willy.”
And he did.
He woke the same way as he had the week before: morning wood—throbbing, insistent morning wood. The only difference was this time there was a mouth on it, someone swallowing his big erection to the root. Wilson opened his eyes to see Jonas’ head bobbing up and down on his swollen cock. Wilson intended to lean his head back and shut his eyes, but by then he’d seen his own abs.
His own abs!
He was lean—like, competition lean—no, better than he’d been in competition! Wilson hadn’t competed in over thirty years—some would argue that he’d gone to seed in that time—but to look at his body in the morning sun, his abs flexing with each deep breath he took, following the tempo of Jonas’ rhythm, you’d think he was a sun-tan away from the Stage.
“Oh my god, look at me!” he said, feeling his own torso with his hands, tweaking his own nipples (and even his nipples were pert and sensitive). He flexed a double-bi. “Look at me!”
And with that, he shot his load, filling Jonas’ mouth and throat with a spectacular amount of cum.
It was really just the start of the process. For the remainder of the week, Wilson lost even more body-fat—by the following Friday, his waist had tightened to an unimaginable thirty inches! Wilson was pretty sure the last time his waist was thirty inches was in Middle School, nearly fifty years ago. Even as a bodybuilder in his prime, Wilson had a ‘roid gut, his abs pushed out by his swollen liver and internal organs. But over the course of the week, his ‘roid gut became a lean, but densely muscled core. It accentuated his upper-body’s V-shape as well as the thick mass of his thighs.
Part of him wanted to wear the same kind of tights he saw on those hot muscle boys—as it was, Wilson’s legs were bigger than any two of them put together—but he found himself a victim of the same insecurities he’d always had. “Get the fuck over yourself,” he laughed. “You could seduce every one of those boys if you’d change your stupid attitude.”
He was actually starting to believe that. Maybe it was just his relentless good mood.
But how could you not be in a good mood when your hair was growing back in? Oh yeah, that was the other thing. Sure, he was working out for hours a day, recuperating more and more quickly, losing body-fat while gaining muscle, but he was also regrowing his hair!
It’s true! His bald head had sprouted a new growth, a new harvest of hair. He thought he’d made peace with being bald, but the renewed growth of hair on his head gave him a sense of elation even greater than the continued growth of his penis, or the fullness of his balls.
Looking at himself in the mirror—and how he was loving what he saw—even his sensational abs couldn’t keep his focus. Every line in his incredible torso led the eye to his substantial package. But not Wilson’s—his eyes were drawn to the hair growing back on his head. His beard, which last week was completely white, was now two-thirds white, the odd reddish-brown hue of his youthful beard fighting its way in.
For a man nearing sixty, Wilson looked middle-aged.
Wrapped in a towel, as he made his way to the shower, the gang of muscle boys came in the locker room. Five of them, they were so beautiful—youthful faces with these hyper-masculine bodies, over-developed muscle with the sizeable genitals they so proudly flaunted. Groomed to perfection, plucked and preened and peacock proud, they strutted in like they owned the place, all of them smiling and giggling and showing off. To Wilson, they were silly boys. Built, silly boys.
Even feeling as good as he did, even looking as good as he was, Wilson felt intimidated by them. Like they were going to judge him and laugh at him. And dismiss him.
But then, the unexpected happened. One of the boys made eye-contact with him, a beautiful Italian boy with black hair and sparkling blue eyes—lashes like Bambi. He made eye-contact with Wilson then quickly looked him up-and-down, then eye-contact again. He lifted his eyebrows and seductively smirked.
Oh my god, Wilson laughed to himself. I just got cruised by one of them!
In the shower, he jerked off thinking about it.
The third dose had really been the kicker, as far as Wilson was concerned. Even the burning nausea after the IV hadn’t been as bad, certainly not in comparison with the plusses. The morning after the third treatment, Wilson woke with a full head of hair, the same shade of auburn he’d had as a young man (not the glaring Opie-like red of his childhood)! Even his beard was now mostly reddish-brown—overnight, he’d gone from a white beard with brown highlights to a brown beard with white highlights.
Weirder still was that he lost all his body hair—all the punishing old man hair, the ear hair, the back hair, the shoulder hair—his leg hair and arm hair, too. Hell, even his ass was smooth—baby smooth! He had the tiniest bit of pubic hair—nothing on the genitals, themselves—and his armpits had the same bare dusting. He considered shaving just to be done with it.
His skin was smooth and flawless. As a redhead, his skin had been freckled and scarred from the sun—the acne he had as a teen still left its mark—but now, it was if his skin had regenerated (maybe it had!), as if it had started fresh. No wrinkles, no pock marks, no bags, no moles—not even calluses on his hands! Studying himself in the mirror, he couldn’t attach an age to his face. Maybe forty—maybe thirty-five and prematurely graying? Certainly not sixty—and that was all that mattered.
He was spending an insane amount of time at the gym, but his workouts felt so good he didn’t want to stop. His muscles kept growing, his waist kept tightening—the pumps he got were nearly as good as sex—and he felt so fucking amazing. He couldn’t help but flex in the mirror after a set, raising his shirt if he had to. He loved when he caught people looking, especially those boys…
He was doing crunches at the end of his workout when he happened to spot Jonas on the far side of the gym, joking around with some old guy—Wilson didn’t recognize the guy, but he was surprised to find himself the tiniest bit jealous. Did he have a thing for Jonas?
“Forget about that guy,” a voice next to Wilson said, surprising him. Wilson glanced over quickly to see that muscular Italian Boy with the Bambi lashes squatting down next to him on the mat. He wore neon green tights and a white sleeveless t-shirt, his overly muscular arms exposed and pumped. When they made eye-contact, the boy smiled—perfect, white teeth beneath soft, full lips.
Wilson, still on his back, returned the smile and asked, “What are you talking about?”
The boy nodded toward Jonas. “That guy, Jonas,” he said. “Forget it. He only goes for the old guys.”
Wilson barked a laugh. “What?”
“Seriously,” the boy said, “the old guys—the really old guys—the grandpas. You don’t stand a chance.”
From the floor, Wilson offered the boy his hand. “Wilson,” he said.
The boy shook it with both his. “Hi Wilson. I’ve seen you around. You’re super-hot…”
Wilson waited for the inevitable “…for your age” but it never came. The boy just squatted there holding Wilson’s hand and grinning.
Wilson prompted him. “And you are…?”
The boy blushed. “Oh… duh. I’m Roddy.”
“Hot Roddy,” the boy said, laughing. The light sparkled in his blue eyes. “That’s my club name. I’m a go-go dancer!”
“Of course you are,” Wilson chuckled—the kid was so sincere. Then, as Wilson started his next set of crunches, he glanced toward Jonas, who was still working the old man.
The boy, Roddy—Hot Roddy—suddenly stepped over Wilson’s torso, straddling him. “What are you doing?” Wilson asked.
The boy smiled, squatting slightly. “Keeping your attention,” he said, and began swaying his hips to some unheard beat. Go-go dancing. God, he was beautiful.
In a move he hadn’t used since high school wrestling, Wilson sat up, taking the boy’s feet out from under him, put him on his ass and then rolled him back onto his shoulders, Wilson between the boys legs, his cock pressing right into the boy’s crack. Looking him straight in the eye, Wilson said, “Now you’ve got my attention.”
The boy was breathless, flustered—delighted. “My apartment is right upstairs,” he said.
They were making out before they got in the front door. Roddy was an amazing kisser—passionate, hungry—their connection had the desperate electricity of teen-aged horniness, randy and rowdy, but with the skill and ability of men far more experienced. For someone so young, Roddy knew a lot about giving pleasure—and he gave it his all.
Hairless and smooth, an over-developed upper body with lean, cut legs (though a beautifully bubbled ass) the Italian Boy (with the Bambi lashes) had soft, pink, puffy nipples, perfect for sucking. And it soon became apparent that Wilson’s beard gave the boy as much stimulation as his mouth had. The boy went absolutely crazy when Wilson ate out his pink, hairless hole—it tasted fresh and clean. “Fuck me,” the boy begged. “Please fuck me!”
Wilson’s dick—now almost as much a shower as it was a grower—was happy to oblige. The boy was able to take it—after a little bit of work—and they found a common rhythm in no time.
They fucked for hours.
It turned out, Roddy was a dumbass, but he was so ridiculously sincere (and good looking) that Wilson was willing to put up with him for a while post-coitus. And the sex had been off the charts! He owed the boy something.
“I like living here,” the muscleboy was saying as he snuggled against Wilson’s big pec. “It’s easy. All I gotta do is find the gym and I’m home!”
“Do you get lost a lot?” Wilson teased, tracing a finger down the boy’s massive bicep.
The boy’s smile faltered for a moment, like he was actually concerned about something, then the grin came back. “Not that often,” Roddy said, sincerely. “And my phone tells me, anyway. I just say, ‘City Gym’ into it and it takes me home—it’s real easy.” He giggled. “Just like me!”
Wilson laughed, too—this kid couldn’t possibly be for real.
“You make enough dancing to afford a two-bedroom apartment in this neighborhood?”
“I used to have a roomate,” Roddy said. “He moved out—I think he married some rich daddy.”
“Is that the goal?” Wilson asked. “To marry some rich daddy?”
“Not mine,” giggled Roddy, sliding on top of Wilson. “I’m not done being young.”
With that, he licked his way down Wilson’s torso, following the grooves in Wilson’s abs, and took Wilson’s big cock in his mouth—it was little work before the old man was ready to fuck again.
Wilson hadn’t realized he’d been at the gym all day until he glanced outside and saw the sun setting. He’d intended to come in and catch a little pump before heading over to Jonas’ house in Malibu, but it felt so good—and his pump was so incredible—he just kept going. Seeing the sun setting outside surprised him—and even scared him a little. That meant he’d been in the gym for over ten hours—and he wasn’t even tired. Just pumped. And ready.
He drove to Jonas’ in his sweaty gym clothes and dirty jockstrap, his cock full and eager. He’d never in his life looked as good as he did right now and it was incomprehensible to him that he might get better.
He was better built (and better looking) than Jonas—and Jonas had gone through the cycle already. By the time he got to Jonas’ door, he was a kid at Christmas.
Jonas’ reaction was everything Wilson wanted it to be, aghast and impressed—Jonas’ cock immediately got hard. Wilson pulled off his shirt and started to flex, his 28” core rock solid and tight, at odds with his 53” chest and even bigger shoulders. Looking at his legs, it seemed possible that each of his quads was the same size as his waist. How could he even move?
When he hit a double bi, Jonas fell on him and began worshipping.
They didn’t make it out onto the patio until nearly midnight.
“Well, here we are,” Jonas said, “the fourth treatment. The Boy Bag!”
Wilson laughed. “The what?”
“The Boy Bag,” Jonas said, holding it up by the corner and shaking it. “The Fountain of Youth.”
“Oh,” Wilson said, forcing a chuckle. “I get it.”
“You think the other treatments have had an effect,” Jonas said, setting up Wilson’s IV, “wait’ll you get a load of this!”
As usual, Wilson was mesmerized by the flow of the liquid into his bloodstream. After a minute or two, he asked, “What’s this one gonna do? I mean, dude, I’m already as big as you…”
Jonas laughed quietly. “True, you’re as big as me—bigger! And your cock is bigger than mine, too. Okay? You gotta trust me, Wilson. I’ve gone through this a few times.”
Wilson was confused. “‘A few times’? What do you mean by…?”
As he spoke, his hand twitched slightly—he looked at it—then it twitched again. “What’s going on?” Wilson asked.
“Nothing bad,” Jonas said. “Don’t worry.” He sat down on the chair next to Wilson’s lounger. “Each treatment has focused on a different aspect of your rejuvenation, right? The first one regenerated your internal organs and hormonal systems, the second dealt with the removal of visceral body-fat and unwanted body-hair, the third took care of the skin, the regrowth of muscle and repopulation of hair follicles. This last one regenerates your nervous system—you’ll find you’re going to be insanely sensitive.”
Wilson’s other hand twitched—the arm with the IV. Jonas motioned to it. “That’s gonna keep up while your nerves go through their thing. Best if I secure you while you got the IV in you. That cool?”
Wilson’s feet began to move on their own—it was like his limbs had the hiccups—it was freaking him out a little. “Yeah,” he said, nervously. “Okay.”
Jonas fetched heavy velcro straps from a cabinet nearby. Wilson watched his own limbs lay there lifeless, twitching like electric jolts were hitting him. Part of him wanted to get up, pull the IV out and run, but he wasn’t able to control his body. Now he was seriously getting scared—whether he trusted Jonas or not.
Jonas wrapped a strap around each of Wilson’s wrists, securing them to the arms of the lounge chair, then did the same to Wilson’s feet. Lastly, he took a very big strap and wrapped it around Wilson’s torso, velcroing him to the back of the lounge.
The IV dripped away—half-empty.
“That’s better,” Jonas said, taking his seat again. “Now you won’t hurt yourself. How do you feel?”
Wilson smiled nervously. “Scared,” he said. “I’d rather have the nausea.”
Jonas snorted. “This is only tough for a minute, way better than the explosive shit on the first night!”
They laughed together for a second, remembering.
“I guess I should calm down,” Wilson said, even as his hands began twitching in earnest. “I mean, you’ve gone through this.”
Jonas looked confused for a second, then shook his head. “Well… no,” he said. “Personally, I never did the whole cycle. I stopped at the third dose.”
“What do you mean, stopped? Why? I thought you’d done this!”
Jonas shook his head—he seemed thoughtful. “No,” he said quietly. “See, the fourth treatment… regenerates the nervous system… and with it, the brain.”
“So, it’s the nature of the formula to regenerate the organ—make it new. So it tends to… wipe out a lot of what existed before. That’s why I didn’t want to do it—I needed my mind intact.” He consoled. “Look, some stuff comes through okay, like language skills… mostly. Intellectually, you end up on a third or fourth grade level. Some memory, not a lot. Interestingly, physical skills tend to remain—like, you’ll remember how to work out, though you won’t really have to. You’ll be great at sports, dancing, any proprioceptive activity. And you’ll be amazing at sex…”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Wilson yelled, trying to fight the restraints—trying to control anything having to do with his body. His beautiful body—the body that was betraying him. “Make this fucking stop, man…!” His torso began to twitch and move as nerves reset and came to life.
The bag was nearly empty.
Jonas tapped it with his finger. “The Boy Bag,” he said. “That’s what I call it—you’ll see. When we’re done, you’re gonna be a beautiful boy. My best one yet!”
Wilson was starting to twitch hard—Jonas sat on the edge of the lounge and held Wilson’s shoulders, securing him and looking in his eyes. “You’ve already fucked Roddy,” Jonas said. “He was one of my first—and we’ve really improved the formula quite a bit since then.”
“Roddy?” Wilson asked. “Hot Roddy? The boy?”
Jonas laughed slyly. “That ‘boy’ is only nine years younger than you. Last year, when he was old man Rodney, he was a fat, fucking loser looking to have a heart attack. Now as Hot Roddy, he’s just about perfect. You will be, too. You should be happy, Willy. You’re the oldest test case we’ve processed so far and you’re exceeding our expectations by margins that you wouldn’t believe. Very promising—I’m excited to get through this.”
“Those boys?” Wilson asked, having difficulty forming his thoughts. “Those boys are all…?”
“Old men,” Jonas said. “Just like you. And by this time tomorrow, you’ll be just like them: a dim-witted but friendly whore who’s made a contribution to science. Thank you, Willy. You’re gonna make me a lot of money.”
“No,” Wilson cried, unable to fight. “I don’t… want this…”
Jonas laughed gently and kissed Wilson on the forehead. He stood up and watched as the last few drops dripped out of the IV bag. “Everybody gets what they want,” Jonas said, pretending to focus on the liquid. “You get eternal youth, a freakish cock, and I get another muscle guy in my stable—a big, dominant top at that. Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of you, Willy. I promise you’ll be happy.”
“Fucker!” Wilson barked. “Lying fuck!”
“I never lied to you,” Jonas said, disconnecting the IV from Wilson’s arm. “And I’ll be honest with you now—this transition isn’t gonna be so pleasant. The good news is, you won’t remember it, so just… bear with it as best you can. I’ll keep an eye on you.”
Jonas went back into the house, leaving Wilson strapped to the lounge chair on the deck overlooking the ocean. He thought about screaming, but thinking suddenly seemed to cause him pain. Everything caused him pain.
Blinding, white pain behind his eyes, obscuring his vision.
It fried and reconnected every nerve ending throughout his entire body—it swelled and bloomed and revealed onion-like layers of agony until he felt his head would explode. His body arched in the chair as his spinal cord conducted the lightning that completely fried him.
By the time it ended, he was already unconscious—and time wasn’t a concept anymore.
Hot Roddy came out of the locker room wearing only a wrestling singlet under a baggy t-shirt, his magnificent ass showcased in the spandex, so tight the thong Roddy wore was obvious beneath the material. Roddy did love to dress the part.
He’d gotten a text from Jonas to meet him at the gym. Roddy knew where the gym was, right downstairs! And Roddy would do anything Jonas told him to do—deep inside, Roddy knew Jonas had somehow made Roddy hot. And sexy. And a go-go dancer! And Roddy was super-grateful! So if Jonas wanted Roddy to meet him at the gym, well, that was right downstairs!
Roddy was stretching on the mat when Jonas walked in, followed by the most beautiful muscle boy Roddy had ever seen. A tall guy with bright orange hair—the sides shaved down to a tight buzz leaving the top long, sweeping—and a full, brown beard. (He was lucky to have so full a beard at such a young age—it made him look more grown-uppy. Besides, Roddy thought beards were super-sexy, especially the way they felt on his hairless hole!) The beard was meticulously groomed and oiled, as perfect as the guy’s eyebrows and haircut.
He was insanely muscular, way bigger than any other guy in the gym—he wore these cotton/spandex stretch jeans that hugged his legs like tights, showing off the mass of his quads, cuffed just below his over-sized calves, ankle-high boots. But the real sight was his package, massive and surreal, a porn-fantasy given life. He wore a scoop-neck long-sleeve t-shirt on top that would’ve exposed his whole deep cleavage but for the length of his beard. The bottom of the tee just barely covered the top of his package, hinting… hinting…
The guy caught Roddy looking and smiled, the light catching his beautiful green eyes and beginning to dance. Obviously, he liked to be looked at.
“Hot Roddy!” Jonas said, suddenly in Roddy’s face, hugging him.
Roddy hugged Jonas back, but continued to look at the big redhead. “Hi, Jonas,” he said, smiling. “Who’s your friend?”
“Roddy! I’ve solved your roommate problem! This is Willy—he’s looking for a place to live!”
“It’s Big Willy,” mumbled the big red-headed hunk to Jonas. “You said I get to be called Big Willy!” Proudly, he looked at Roddy and said, “It’s a joke, ‘cuz my dick is so big!”
Roddy looked. “It sure is,” he said, smiling.
Willy leaned in, conspiratorially. “It’s a shower and a grower,” he said, grabbing it with his big hand.
Roddy said, already getting an erection, “I live right upstairs.”
A smile broke out on Willy’s face. “You live at the gym?” he asked. “For reals? Man, I would love to live at the gym!”
Roddy laughed. “It’s super-easy! And if you get lost, you just say, ‘where’s the gym?’ and you find your way back every time! It’s great!”
They laughed together, giggling like school girls.
“You wanna see the apartment?” Roddy asked, with a teasing tone.
“Yeah, I do,” Willy said, reaching up under his shirt and stroking his hard core. “I’d love to live at the gym.”
Roddy turned to Jonas. “Jonas, can we go see it?”
Willy laughed, clapping Jonas on the shoulder. “Jonas said I’m gonna make movies!” Willy announced. “I’m gonna make show-off movies and sexy-flexy videos and pose in front of guys for money. If I live at the gym, I can be pumped all the time! Can I, Jonas? Can I live at the gym, Jonas? Can I live with Roddy and be ready to flex all the time?”
Jonas smiled. “Of course you can, big boy. Live wherever you want—I want you to be happy! Roddy, take him upstairs and show him your place.”
“Okay!” beamed Roddy, grabbing Willy’s hand and fairly skipping out to the elevator. “C’mon!”
They left together, laughing. Jonas watched them go—he smiled.
Turning to one of the old men entering the locker room, Jonas followed him, saying, “Hey, hot daddy… woof…”
The old guy smiled back.
Jonas had him hooked before he jerked the guy off in the sauna—this one was gonna work out even better.
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